


Clint's Petting Zoo

by scribaversutus, skyfallat221b



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Clint Barton's Farm, hawkeye's farm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 14:14:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4224810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribaversutus/pseuds/scribaversutus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyfallat221b/pseuds/skyfallat221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a string of missions, Clint is back on the farm.  The chores are done and he's ready to relax, but there are always critters roaming around and his path tends to cross theirs quite frequently...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clint's Petting Zoo

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all, this is a multi-chapter collab fic about our dearest Hawkeye and his adventures with all manner of animals. It's not going to be chronological or angsty (hopefully), it's just something fun we were talking about and decided to write! There's no update schedule as this is more of a when-we-have-a-whim fic, but you can expect lots of adorable moments and LOTS of even more adorable animals.
> 
> ~scribaversutus

"I swear I'm not _that_ much of a slob," Clint muttered as he dug through what was admittedly a huge pile of dirty laundry. "So where is that damn shirt?" After months of nothing but missions and a long morning spent catching up on the chores at the farm he was ready to kick back and chill for a while, but it was a little too cold out to sit in just a t-shirt so he had jogged upstairs to find his comfiest, most well-worn flannel – and discovered that it seemed to have disappeared. Clint straightened up with a tired sigh and ran one hand through his hair, letting it rest on the back of his neck. His eyes swept over the colorful mess again, hoping against all odds that he would spot it this time. No such luck.

"Shirts do not just disappear. Maybe it's in the clean stuff after all…" Clint moved to the dresser as he spoke, pulling a drawer open and rifling through it. He moved to the next drawer up, then the one above it, pausing only to pull out the blue and white twin of the flannel he was looking for and toss it on the bed before returning to his search. If he couldn't find his favorite shirt, it would have to do.

Half an hour and an exhaustive search of every room it might possibly be in later, the red long-sleeved plaid shirt still hadn’t turned up. Now sweaty and significantly less relaxed than he had intended to be, Clint growled a string of curses as he pulled the blue alternative on over his gray tee. He marched out to the front porch, grabbing the coffee pot on the way, and plopped down in the chair swing to stare moodily into space. When he joined S.H.I.E.L.D. he wouldn’t have cared about a lost shirt, or much of anything to be honest, but things had changed since then. He’d changed since then. He’d built attachments to objects and people, built rituals and a life for himself, even reclaimed his family’s farm. That shirt had become a constant in his life, and missing it now felt worse than he’d like to admit.

Clint closed his eyes and leaned back in the swing. He’d come here to rest and relax and that was just what he was going to do, shirt or no shirt. One by one Clint made each of his muscles relax and focused his consciousness on the world around him – a form of meditation he’d picked up in the circus. Slowly the aches from his last mission fell away and his senses became more open. Suddenly he heard all the birds he’d been ignoring just a moment before, their songs clashing together in his ears. The smell of grass pollen and spring flowers mixed with the moisture from the snowmelt streams, flowing down from the nearby hills. He felt the grain of the wood under his fingertips and the wind brushing across his face. But he’d only scratched the surface of the environment. Breathing deeply, Clint focused harder, _pushing_ his consciousness further away from his body.

Now he felt almost at one with his surroundings. The singing birds became a choir in perfect harmony, the snapping sounds and faint musky smell from a few hundred feet away were suddenly a deer grazing in complete ignorance of his presence. Sliding down to sit crosslegged on the porch, Clint felt the vibrations of a chipmunk scampering away when his movement startled it and heard the hawk circling overhead cry out when it spotted the rodent too late to dive down and catch it. The air grew damper on his face and he turned his head, certain that rain was falling to the south but that the wind, whispering through the trees, would push it away from the farm. Clint could nearly sense the energy that the old monk in the circus had told him flowed through all things, connecting each individual pinprick of life to the web that held the world together. He gave himself fully over to his senses, letting his consciousness join completely with the world around him, allowing himself to feel the peace that he could only ever truly experience when he was home – home, and happy.

In this state, he let himself drift for some time – he was never sure how much time, only that all was well with the world and with him. Usually he came back to himself slowly, whenever he was ready, but this time the world fell away quickly as his eyes snapped open. His ears had caught the unfamiliar sound of a tiny sound, nearly lost below the normal din of the forest. It had almost sounded like a puppy, but the closest dogs he knew of were miles away. Curious and slightly concerned, Clint rose from his seated position and leaned on the railing to regain his balance before he moved carefully in the direction of the sound he’d heard. Stepping off the porch and around the corner of the house, Clint paused to listen again, hoping to hear the sound again. There – it was coming from the direction of the shed. He moved that way, being sure to quiet his footsteps until he could hone in on the exact source of the noise. One more soft whine and he had it, walking straight toward the shed. As he neared it, Clint noticed a small tunnel in the dirt under the shed’s back wall and silently knelt about a yard from it, listening carefully for any more noise that might help him identify what exactly was in the burrow. This close to the source, it wasn’t long before some sounds filtered out. Clint closed his eyes again, this time focusing directly on the noises he was hearing. They became clearer, whimpers coming at odd intervals and sometimes overlapping. Clint barely stifled a quick intake of breath; there was more than one animal in there? But he could hear something else, buried underneath the whines, a softer, constant sound that he’d heard before. The quiet sucking and slurping, the whines and whimpers; whatever animal was in there, it was a mom and it had babies. Clint’s eyes softened and he got up and backed away with a gentle smile. It was better to leave them alone, at least for now.

* * *

Clint started planning immediately. He had six weeks before he had to report back to S.H.I.E.L.D., which would probably give him just enough time to watch the babies grow up. By dinnertime, he had a stakeout all figured out; the end of the porch nearest the shed had been turned into a hunting blind equipped with binoculars, a camera, some books, and a number of items that would help him disguise his scent. He’d also stocked the kitchen with his favorite snacks and some game meat – you know, just in case. (Clint knew perfectly well that you should never feed a wild animal and could list all the reasons why, but if his life had taught him anything it was to be prepared for every possible scenario. In this case, that meant having a few skinned squirrels chilling in his fridge.) There were only a few hours of daylight left, but that didn’t worry him; he had a few ideas of what species was bunking under his shed, and given that he hadn’t seen it at all that morning, he was pretty sure that it was at least diurnal, if not fully nocturnal. The only way he could know for sure was to hurry up and wait. With this in mind, Clint settled into his chair and peered through the blind’s cover, watching the tunnel for any sign of movement. When Mom decided to come on out, he’d be ready.

It wasn’t long before his adventure turned out to be like every other stakeout he’d been on: tedious, drawn out, and boring. The same training and natural talents that made him a great sniper gave him an advantage; even other S.H.I.E.L.D. snipers were amazed at how long Hawkeye could stay in one position while waiting for his target to appear. But the fact that his body was still didn’t mean that his mind was, too. In reality, Clint’s brain was buzzing with too much to even focus on his book for any real period of time. No matter how hard he tried to pay attention to the text, this was a stakeout and his training always won. He was constantly running calculations on wind speed and direction, determining how it would impact his arrow’s flight. And he was nearly hyperaware of his surroundings, every new sound and scent catching his attention until he was sure it was harmless. Clint put the book down resolutely, wishing he could sigh but unwilling to make any noise that might make his wait even longer.

As it turned out, however, he didn’t have that much of a wait left. As dusk settled Clint heard the telltale crunch of small paws on the forest floor, heading his way and coming closer with each moment. Soon the sound changed from crunching to a steady pitter-patter; the animal had exited the trees and was moving across his front yard now. He leaned forward in anticipation, careful to keep his vital signs steady in case it sensed his presence. A moment later it came into his line of sight, making a beeline for the den with a mole hanging from its mouth. Clint recognized it immediately, his face splitting into a broad grin; he’d spent weeks poring over books of North American wildlife as a kid, and had actually seen one of these before on a foggy morning he’d never forget. It was a Red Fox, a male bringing food to its mate – which meant the kits were only a week or two old, maybe younger! If the kits were still that young, he wouldn’t see anything more tonight. Clint watched the male duck into the den, then stood up, making an extra effort to stay quiet in spite of his excitement. He’d refresh his memory tonight so he knew what to expect over the rest of his break. Pulling the door shut behind him, he went straight for his laptop, practically flying up the stairs. A misstep on the top few stairs nearly downed him, but he caught himself and shook his head, chuckling. He hadn’t realized just how excited he was at the prospect of watching these new lives grow up and find their places in the world. Actually, it had been a long time since he’d been this excited about anything. Clint paused with the thought, then discarded it as he punched the air and laughed out loud. He was home, he was free from obligations, and he was gonna watch fluffy fox babies grow into beautiful, capable adults. Today, at least, life was good.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter title taken from Ylvis' "The Fox" because... well, that should be pretty obvious. ;) There will be a part 2 at some point with more Clint and WAY more baby foxes!
> 
> Let us know what you think in the comments or on our tumblr accounts, spectralarchers (skyfallat221b) and clevervulpus (scribaversutus). Seriously, feedback is more precious than kettle corn to us!
> 
> ~scribaversutus


End file.
